Angels and Demons
by theraggles
Summary: John Winchester and Ellen Harvelle investigate the mysterious deaths of a Michigan gang. Could Sam, prince of the rival gang, be behind all this, or is it some strange coincidence?
1. Chapter 1

_Raggles here! I's actually doing this for PULL, a program started by my very bestest friend Bookaholic711. She is FANTASTIC. Please check out the program on her profile. _

_LOOKING FOR BETA. PM me if you want to help out!_

_Fiction:__ the act of feigning, inventing, or imagining. See: no ownie ownie. In case being on FanFiction wasn't enough evidence for you. _

1:

The car was alone on the street, which was dimly lit and generally empty, except for the dump of a car. A young man slipped down the narrow sidewalk and into the light of one of the pathetic street lamps.

"Who's the kid?" Ellen Harvelle, a young mother straight out of the police academy, asked to her partner inside the safe confines of the stakeout car. John Winchester, a veteran and ace detective for 20 plus years, sat beside her. "You said that this was Demon's territory. He's gotta be a player."

The man stopped and lit up a cigarette. Taking a long drag, he peered over his shoulder and shrugged in frustration.

"Yeah, that's Sam."

"He don't look like much, to tell you the truth, John."

"Don't let him fool you. He's genius, but god, he can be vicious. Ever since his brother died…"

The subject in question inhaled once again and shot a furious glare over his shoulder. Ellen was right, he didn't look like trouble. He had to be over six foot and lean with hair that curled just right. He wore a normal blue t-shirt over baggy jeans, and was lost somewhere under the unzipped hoodie.

She turned her attention to a few figures half concealed in the shadows.

"Looks like he's being tailed."

"Yeah," John replied, cryptic as ever.

"And?" Ellen prompted.

"They're called the 7 Sins. They're Sam's personal body guards." Ellen raised one eyebrow.

"See, Sammy's like the little demon prince... Ol' Lucy himself appointed the sins for his protection. Fitting, huh? Boos man named himself Lucifer."

Ellen barked out a laugh. "So who's the chick?"

Following Ellen's line of sight, John spotted the query. "That's Ruby, I think, she was blonde last week. She's basically like Sam's personal babysitter. Little Sammy does something Lucy doesn't like, and Ruby swoops in and mops up the mess. Like a frickin' tutor, she is, and he gets away with a little rap on the knuckles. You'd think he'd at least try and teach the kid a lesson."

After a quizzical look from his young partner, he delved into greater depths.

"Even Satan himself doesn't stay young forever. Rumor has it that the kid gets the whole gang for his big one-eight."

"Ah, shit, he's not even legal, yet?

John produced a bottle of Jack. He took a swig and then passed it to Ellen. "Nah, but he's caused enough trouble as it is. Can't wait until he's an adult," John added with sarcasm.

The figure in question inhaled, long and deep.

"Shouldn't we bust him for underage smoking?"

"Nah," John said. "Be more trouble than it's worth. His dad would probably start a gang war."

She reveled on that for a moment. Deciding that John knew best, she turned her conversation to the more important matter at hand.

"You think that he's responsible for the Angel deaths?"

"I suppose. He's real loyal to his father. Do anything to guarantee his support. Get in good with dad and get anything. The Detroit Demons and the Angels of Hamtramck have been rival gangs since the beginning."

"Yeah, heard about the Angels. Not so angelic, are they?" John shook his head, no. "There have always been rumors about them. Who really runs it?"

"Honestly? We have no idea. He calls himself 'God', go figure. But we have no clue about his real identity." Ellen nodded and took a long swig of the whiskey.

"Tell me what we know, Harvelle."

"Okay," Ellen started. "Three murders. All died from round stab wounds to the neck, all members of the gang Angels of Hamtramck. Someone's killing Angels. I would put my money on the Demons."

"It's a good hunch. Sam's real messed up about his brother. Died in some freak dog fighting accident. One of the dogs turned on him, real mess. Almost three years ago. Actually, Sam was a good kid back then. Real promising future; got a full ride to some college. But after his brother's death, he just tried to fill up some nasty ass shoes. Being the only son left and all… Pass the Jack."

"Here. So what? Kid freaks after his brother dies, goes all 'Daddy's boy' and kills some of dear old dad's rivals? I don't get it? What's the real motive? He must have more dangerous enemies than some trivial little Angel nobodies."

"Yeah your right. Well I got a hunch, it ain't much, but we'll follow up on that later."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah? Any Intel into who's next?" John asked.

"Yep. Word on the street 'round here is that a couple of low life angels are gonna be next, no real reason, though. We got a couple names: Joshua, Raphael, Jessica, and a Dean. No other information."

"Figured, ain't no one gonna give us more than that. Dean… haven't heard that name in a while."

"Why? Who is he?"

"He's like Michael's numero uno. Need someone whacked; Michael calls in this guy. Real good, real pro. Bad at following orders; kid doesn't give a shit unless it's his daddy talking, but that hasn't been a problem for a few years now. He bit it when the kid was fifteen. Worked that boy into the ground. Shoved him into the streets too early, if you ask me."

"Ouch," Ellen said, swishing the half empty bottle of whiskey around before returning it to the center console. "I still don't get it. What's Dean got to do with anything? Is he good enough that this Sam kid would want to kill him?"

"Something like that," he paused. "They have a past."

"What kind of past?"

Deciding that they were drunk enough, John started the car and headed back to the station.

He spotted his prey, easy. Just out of high school or in college, maybe. It was dark out, in some back alley, sometime around 2 AM, when he found her. He paused for a second, unsure, but the warm reassurance of two small feathery wing tattoos on her lower back pressed him forward.

She was perfect; he slipped from the shadows.

"You," she said.

His surprise was evident from his expression.

She scoffed, "You're quite famous you know."

He was rather bored with the current predicament and pulled a long silver blade from his suit sleeve. It was long and round, not anything that would normally be considered a sword, but nothing else really fit. It was beautiful, really, the man thought, shame he had to get it dirty.

"Well, in that case, I'm going to offer you a choice. You can take it or die."

Madison MacManus's patience was running out. In fact, it had run out, say, sixteen and a half minutes ago, when Madison's third call to her best friend's cell went to voicemail. She had a good guess of Jessica's last whereabouts: her skeezy boyfriend's half-way apartment in downtown, near the slums.

She didn't have to look far.

Jessica Moore lay on the dirt floor of a back alley, not moving. In fact, she was lying in a spreading puddle of her own blood. The hole in her neck, the one that had slowly sucked her life and breath, dribbled blood determinedly. Her ever lovely blonde hair lay flat around her head, like a messed-up halo.

The name of her attacker sat uncalled at her lips.

Madison opened her mouth and let out a scream.

_Feedback is worshipped!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Okay, okay! I know: I didn't post last Fiction Friday! I was tired (I woke up at 4:37 in the morning that day) and fell asleep when I got home. But I'm posting now! Yay, PULL! _

_NaNo WriMo is coming up (3 days woot, woot!) and I will be participating if you interested, Google search, though I'll probably post a link on my profile. _

_Special Thanks to Lolajay, tearsXsolitude, and anonymousn for reviewing on the last chapter._

_Disclaimer: Fan:_ an enthusiastic devotee, follower, or admirer _Fiction: _something feigned, invented, or imagined

Figure it out.

2:

The diner sat half empty on the streets of Detroit. It was one of John's favorite; the booths were worn with the steady love of loyal customers since 1958, and given the rustic feel Royale's aimed for, the owners never bothered to replace furniture. John hadn't had a partner since 1996, and had been alone in the back booth since then. But receiving a new partner this last year signified the end to the silence and lonely moping that always accompanied him in the secluded corner. He greeted Mary at the front counter with a smile, something that he never wore anymore, and Mary was completely surprised.

"You're happy. It's nice to see you smile again," she returned the smile with a shining one of her own. She was about John's age with long blonde hair, and a sweet face. Her face dimmed then, though she still wore her smile. "Is she your girlfriend?"

"God, no," John jumped. He had his eye on someone else. "She's my new partner. It feels good to have someone to take care of and train. Just like the old days with Caleb."

She nodded and repressed the urge to rehash that particular subject. She always was concerned with John's health, and a good talk to always was her first plan of action.

After leading John and his new partner to the back booth always reserved for him, the introductions could finally commence.

"Hey, I'm Ellen." It was a simple introduction, and Mary smiled at the thought that the way someone introduces themselves is a very good indication of what kind of person they are.

"Hello, Ellen, pleased to meet'cha. What can I get you two?"

"I'll have my usual," said John, not even bothering with the menu.

Ellen scanned the items quickly before answering, "I'll have the Club sandwich, please, with a side of French fries."

"And to drink?" Mary asked after scribbling their orders on her notepad.

"Coffee," John replied instantly.

"Make it two."

Mary smiled and walked off. She brought back their coffees, and set them down.

John smiled and turned to Ellen once Mary had left. He went over the basics again, she would need to know everything if any situation got out of hand.

Ellen looked over at John's radio. He kept it with him at all times, even when dining. She shook her head; the man did not know how to shut off.

"419, the corner of Russell and Erskine. Requesting backup," came from the radio.

John looked up at Ellen almost apologetically. He hailed Mary over as she walked by. When she got to their table, John stood up and, taking one last sip of his coffee, said, "Make our order to go."

"Who is she?" John had arrived two minutes ago, with Ellen Harvelle in tow. He had told her to be prepared; it was her first dead body.

Ellen walked several strides up to the body, took one look, and turned right around. She crouched down just around the corner, her face to her knees. She took several breaths and shoved her hair back, taking some time to calm down.

The CSI stared at Ellen as she walked away. "Jessica Moore. Aged nineteen, attending local college. What's her problem?"

"First DB."

He nodded. "Yeah, the first one's always the hardest."

"So…"

"Right," the CSI continued, crouching down. "I'm really glad you came; this is right up your alley." He rolled her over carefully, exposing the tramp stamp angel wings.

"Great: another one."

Ellen chose that moment to reappear. She looked at the blood on the woman and her face went pale, but this time she stayed.

"An angel?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "Same COD?"

"Yep. Round wound to the neck, one inch in diameter. Sharp force trauma."

"T.O.D.?"

"Liver temp says around midnight."

"Well," John said, clapping the CSI on the back and turning away. "Be sure to send the paper work to my department!"

They got into the car. Ellen was still silent and John secretly felt an empty gap where their jovial discourse should have been. When he asked Ellen why she was so silent, she just shrugged.

It was a few more minutes before she actually answered.

"She was dead."

John agreed.

"Who could stomach that? Who could _do_ something like that?"

John didn't know.

"I'm sorry."

This time Ellen possessed enough emotion to wear it earnestly on her face. She turned toward him, twisting in the passenger seat. "For what?"

"I knew you had never seen a dead body before, I should have prepared."

She scoffed, turning back to the road. "John, I don't think anything could have prepared me for _that_. That's something I will never forget, and no amount of '_preparation_' could save me from remembering."

Ellen took John's silence as concurrence.

Detroit Police Department had a one story building in the back where the detectives mostly holed up. It was shabby with not enough windows and no air conditioning, but every single one of them, apart from Ellen, of course, called it home.

There was a sort of respect for John Winchester, after he dealt with the Caleb situation, in the Detective division and the resulting success since, but he didn't play that up too much, truthfully. Even Bobby Singer, recently promoted sergeant, gave John Winchester a tip of the hat and nod more often than not. Today was one of the not's.

John sat down at his desk, slinging his customary gray trench coat over the back of his swivel chair and sifted through the small pile of envelopes, and one very large one, on the table top. He stared blankly at the massive one, reading the name over and over again, as if that would somehow pierce through the muddled fog of his brain. It didn't.

Ellen hopped on his desk, feet swinging like a delighted school girl, and considering Ellen's actually personality, he took that as a bad sign.

"Get down off my desk, Harvelle."

"Sorry, boss, but _your_ boss wants to see you."

"Tell him–"

"Winchester!" John was sure Singer hadn't heard him, but the time was uncanny and chilling to say the least.

Standing up, and tossing the envelope back down once he got there, he made his way into the office.

"Winchester, have you solved that gang case yet?" Bobby's incessantly gruff voice wasn't very chipper this morning, though John supposed he never sounded very chipper anyway.

"No–"

"Don't answer that, I've got the report right here on another death…"

"Sir, the deaths… well to be honest they seem random. No witnesses, and CSI's got no evidence, but I've got the victim's friend down at the station for questioning."

"Good. Get it done."

"Yes, sir." And with a final grunt and the ungraceful toss and catch of the case file, John Winchester was back at his desk.

As he flopped back down into his (surprisingly) comfortable desk chair he sighed. Ellen looked at him expectantly.

"Nothin', kid, don't worry about it." He picked up the recently discarded case to distract himself from his young partners accusing glare. "Keep yourself occupied with that." He received a grumble and muttered obscenities for his efforts, but she ultimately walked away to do as he asked.

Picking up the cast-off letter from earlier, he confirmed his mind's befuddled fog as he realized that the name he had been trying to decipher earlier was, indeed, his own, and the name he should care about was in the upper left-hand corner.

"Who's that from?" Crap! He jumped and resettled in his chair. Damn that kid.

"Ex-wife: child support."

Fuck, and the feather broke the camel's back.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Not mine, wrote for PULL, etc., sleep tired now._

_3:_

"So," Lucifer asked. He sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled elegantly. "Which one of you was it? It doesn't bother me, in fact, it is quite the… admirable act, if I say so myself."

He met with a heavy silence.

"What?" He mocked. "No one? None of you have the guts to stand up and say you killed Angels, no? Sam?"

The petulant teenager glanced up from where he had been engrossed in his nail beds and rolled his eyes. "What would I have to gain from _that_?"

"Revenge, maybe? Or you could be trying to win back that little play thing you… _insisted _on playing with. What was his name again? Dave, Dane, Don, De–"

He glanced sharply up at his father. "No, Dad."

"Not you, then. Who then?" The question radiated in the oppressive silence in the hall. "Answer me."

Sam supposed that he wasn't particularly spiteful about the killings, but the fact that he didn't know shit about it.

When no answer was received, Lucifer straightened, adjusting his jacket and running his hand through his short hair. The sound of his heels clacking against the marble resonated and every demon flinched with every _snack_ _clack _of the shoes.

"Look into it," he ordered Yellow Eyes as he passed, slamming the door shut behind him.

{***}

"What do we know?" Michael sat upon the high chair, disdainfully leering at the Angels gathered. The room was opaque with cigarette smoke and the tension that ran from Angel to Angel.

"Obviously not much," Gabriel smirked, "or we would have done something long ago, brother."

"You have no say in any of this," Michael sneered. "Dad left me in charge, so quit being a smart ass."

"Sure, when you come down from that high horse of yours! Don't you dare play the '_I'm older'_ card! Dad didn't say shit, and we all know that–"

"Where is God anyway?" Anna called from the back. "He hasn't been here for years. Some say he never existed."

The crowd murmured similar doubts as the comment spread throughout the assembly.

"See," cried Gabriel. "You obviously can't handle–"

"I so can!" Michael replied viciously. "You're just–"

"Oh come on Michael, you're just an arrogant fuck who's–"

The low hush rose steadily until the wave crested and a crescendo of sound erupted in the tiny, cramped room. Voices ascended against each other, higher and higher until…

"Quiet," insisted a low, raspy voice from the middle. The soft voice carried all through the room, sending the patrons into silence. "This is not helping."

"I agree," piped Zachariah. "Your useless bickering gains you nothing. And while you all insist on beating a long dead horse, we could be focusing on discussing more relevant ideas."

Michael sighed, officially bored with the processions. "Did you have something you wanted to say?"

"Indeed I do. The defense is a great offense."

{***}

"Sam," Ruby called.

"Let's go out, I want to have fun."

"Look, Sam, your dad–"

"What?" Sam scoffed. "He what, Ruby? Really, you should know better."

"Sam, come on, your version of _fun _is not going help," she said, switching tactics. "I promise."

"Let's go have some fun, Ruby," he insisted, "or better yet, leave and never come back here."

Delicate flakes of snow clung to his hair as he gazed out across the city, gloved hands shoved deep into warm pockets. His heavy boots crushed the powdered white under his feet.

"Sam, you know we can't–"

"You're right, I do know; you can quit the lecture there."

A scream of pain sailed through the air, landing upon Sam and Ruby's ears. They rushed to the source, watching one of Sam's body guards fell to the ground. A pair of hostile eyes flashed in the darkened and dank alley. The silhouette shifted and darted across the cobblestones, skimming the walls and racing along dumpsters, the clacking of its shoes the only sound Sam has to follow as he sprints off after it.

"Sam!" Ruby calls, but Sam doesn't stop, just running behind the speeding shadow.

_These are so not the right jeans for running_, Sam thought absently, breath steaming in front of him. The shadow shifted around a corner and Sam skidded to catch it.

Later, Sam wouldn't be able to say why he ran after the man. It would be some bull about justice but as he was running down the dingy street, one word flitted through him mind: _proof_, and maybe, if he was honest with himself (which he wasn't), _see father?_

{***}

In the end, Sam lost him around Diamond and 2nd street on the North end. He slipped behind a building and when Sam followed, he met with nothing but empty space and mewling kitten.

Ruby ended up having to call 911, which is a disaster for any gang member, anytime. When Sam managed to wander back to the bloody imprint in the snow, police had arrived and yellow caution tape ran the perimeter of where they had been and sirens ran across the red-stained frost. Ruby's panicked eyes flicked up from where a young female cop was taking her statement. She less than politely disengaged herself from the woman's grasp and skittered off towards her charge. A burly man placed a hand across her path, effectively stopping her from coming any nearer. The work-hardened face turned towards where Ruby's eyes were focused.

Sam knew _that_ face. John Winchester, former cop and newly appointed high-ranking detective, a man who had busted him on many cases–including one memorable time with keg of beer and two goats neither of them wish to mention again–and the detective who had covered Sam's brother's murder. The man who had ruled it an accident.

The steely eyes focused on him briefly before Sam felt a warm hand encircle his bicep and pull him away from the police.

{***}

"Excuse me, _miss_, but we're going to need you to come back to the station with us to answer some more pertinent questions," John Winchester insisted.

The 'station' itself was pretty pathetic, and lacked the equipment for much of anything. It did, though, have an interrogation room.

Ellen was tasked with the job of setting up the cameras. It wasn't a particularly taxing role, but Ellen did it with fervor, keen to impress her boss and mentor.

"Ruby," John stated.

"Johnny Winchester, it's been a long time since I've seen your face." She crossed her arms across her chest.

The blank expression he returned to her let no emotion escape. "We have some questions for you that relate to both this killing today and the recent attacks on your rival gang."

Her silted eyes flicked from John to Ellen and back, uncrossing her arms and leaning forward. "I want immunity."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Not mine. PULL. Sleep. _

4:

"Yeah, sure." Ruby's past crimes held nothing against serial murder.

"We're not going to cuff ya, but you're gonna have to ride in the back," Ellen stated, flinging a thumb over the shoulder to indicate the squad car.

{***}

John adjusted the camera in the far right of the room. Recording interrogations was usually reserved for confessions, but John wanted to keep all evidence clean and orderly.

"Please state your name, occupation, and date of birth."

"Cassidy. Katherine Cassidy. Twenty-fifth of November. '86."

"And occupation?" Ellen leaned forward in inquiry, honestly curious. Personally she was betting her money on that Sam kid, but any indication improved her case. In fact, she had _literally_ bet money on it. Jimmy from Narcotics had bet her a Benjamin Franklin on Yellow Eyes, right-hand-man to the devil himself.

"Personal advisor to Samuel Wesson of the–" she cut herself off.

"It's okay, Ruby," John leered. "We already know about Sammy's daddy's little gang."

"Obviously not, if you use 'Sammy' and 'daddy' in the same sentence like that."

"Well what's that supposed to mean?"

"Lucifer hasn't been 'daddy' to Sam since the day Adam died. You know nothing if you think that their relationship is all puppies and flowers and 'oh-god-I-love-you's. Sam wouldn't pick up his father's handkerchief if it fell two feet from him."

John whistled low. "Well that eliminates, like, 99% of my questions. Okay, so you ever heard of a Jessica Moore? Celeste Kelkovic?"

"Yeah."

"Or Joshua, Raphael and Dean?"

"Oh, hells yes."

"And?"

"Well what do you want me to say? Yeah, I know them, in fact I, know those names quite well."

"And why would that be?"

"'Cause those were the Angels that killed Sam's brother."

{***}

"Well, Sam, haven't seen you in a place of the law willingly since, well, never."

"Back off, John. I'm here for Ruby."

"Whoa, whoa, kid. No need to get nasty," John grinned. "Here, I'll let her go–free of charges for that incident back over in Windsor–sure. On one condition: you come on in for some brief questioning. Nothing big, we're just curious, not arresting you."

This was the dangerous part. Sam wouldn't have been picked up on the scene due to his father's reputation of hewing off a couple of fingers of any cop who arrested his son. No the problem with that is that Sam's high up on the food chain and gets enough info to get by. Here comes the complicated part. If Sam said yes, no problem, they'd get what little intel from him that they could. Now if he said no, which was the more likely, then they'd be out of luck and John would have to admit his bluff (Ruby has ensured a written consent of immunity). The second option was even more problematic because if he said no he was free to go on the streets and John would most likely get another opportunity when Sam willingly walks into a police station.

Sam ran a hand quickly through his tangled mess of hair before replying. "Sure why not." He glared at John. "But don't think this forgives anything, John."

"Okay Sam, sit right down. First things first, do you know these two girls?" John placed two pictures on the table and slid them over to Sam.

He observed on quickly, glancing at it before pushing it aside to regard the other. "Yep. But let's get this straight: I'm cooperating simply because I didn't do anything. That on there–"the one on the left–"is Jessica Moore. We dated for a while."

"You know she helped kill Adam?"

Sam's eyes flicked up and he sat back in the chair. Eyebrows stitched together as confusion set in. "No."

"Well then, Ruby obviously isn't telling you everything."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Wait, so _now_ you're acknowledging that Adam's death wasn't accidental?"

"Sure, for the purpose of this interrogation let's say that I acknowledge it was murder. What about the other?"

"Don't know her name. Can't tell you a damn thing about her except I went running after her killer."

"Oh?" Ellen startled, finally sensing a shift in conversation. She had no interest in trivial family problems, but the murderer piqued her interest.

"Yeah. I was taking a walk down on 5th when Ruby and I heard a scream. I ran after the guy but lost him on Diamond; Ruby stayed with the girl."

"And how do we know you didn't murder the girl and leave your lackey to clean up the evidence while you ran off?"

"Well, for a couple of reasons. First, calling the cops is like certain death for a gangster; Ruby would never do that, it makes her twitchy just to see cops walking on the street. Two, if I was a guilty murderer, I wouldn't agree to an interrogation. And three: there was a traffic cam on the cross of Eagle. In my line of business, that is one thing you always seek out."

{***}

Ellen sidled up next to Ash in the computers room. Dim lights flickered across scrap piles of keyboards in the corner and the naked bulb hanging from the ceiling swung from side to side maddeningly. Ash had seven of his computer screens occupied with scenes from the traffic cam on Eagle road. Each monitor was frozen on a different moment of Sam and Ruby's animated discourse. Ash pointed to one screen on the far left.

"Okay, so I've managed to reverse some of the blur and pixilation with a couple of filters, but this is as clear as it's gonna get." He gestured towards the still blurry picture. Ellen nodded.

"So their story checks out. Enter stage right and commence argument. Okay, so like about a minute in," he said, pressing a quick succession of keys to speed the picture up until he landed on the right spot and clicked another series to play. "There," he indicated, his finger hovering over a flurry of movement in the far left of the camera.

"What is that?"

"Well that's the woman. Same spot, and the same special red shoes." Those shoes had been hard to miss. "So it seems like they were just having a conversation." He points to a separate screen showing a few seconds ago with the figure standing peacefully. "Then he says something, she freaks out, screams, gets stabbed and Sam runs down that alley. Police show up soon after and that's about it."

"Can you focus on the figure?"

"Negative. I could barely get a clear enough image to identify Sam and Ruby. I was lucky Corpse Bride over there had some pretty distinctive shoes, or we'd be outta luck. They should really get better cameras. The only things these do is occasionally catch some jay-walkers."

Ellen got up from her chair, shrugging. She snatches up the file folders she had brought with her and headed for the door.

"Thank you, Dr. Badass."

He sniffed and flicked his long hair back. "No problemo, senorita."

"Hey Ash," Ellen said, turning back.

"Yeah?"

"Cut the mullet off, 'kay?"


End file.
